


Safe and Solid; Protecting and Proud

by QueenoftheProcrastination



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Bathing, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3660099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheProcrastination/pseuds/QueenoftheProcrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elena Trevleyan has been captured by Red Templars and is being held in Suledin Keep. Commander Cullen prepares to storm the castle to save her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr ask prompt: "Cullen & Trevalyan with Cullen being the hero". I decided to break it into three parts because it’s a tad on the long side (plus, suspense yeah?), so here’s Part One. Parts Two and Three will be posted over the weekend! I hope you like it!

Elena groaned.

She was lying on something hard and cold. Her entire body ached, especially her head. She tried to open her eyes, but it felt like glass had been ground into her eyeballs. Reaching out her hands slowly, her fingers brushed over straw and stone. Carefully, she propped herself against the nearest wall, and forced her eyes open. Pain shot through the back of her head, down her spine.

“Fuck,” she gasped, breaths coming out in heavy pants as she tried to overcome the pain lacing through her body. 

Looking around, she was definitely in a dungeon. A few torches illuminated the dank walls, rusted shackles handing from them. There was a large table in the middle, leather straps dangling from the sides. Elena’s eyes went wide as she tried not to think about what might be in store for her. She took a deep breath; little puffs of white hung in the air before her. She shivered. She must be Suledin Keep. How in the Maker’s name had she ended up here? Rubbing the back of her head, she winced when her fingers brushed over a tender spot. Her hair was sticky and matted with blood.

 _Ugh_. 

The last thing she remembered was…well? She had been trying to get one of those blasted humming shards. Yes, she wandered away from camp, not more than twenty feet and then, nothing. She must have been ambushed. How long had she been unconscious? Hours? Days? She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Surely someone would come for her. Leliana would send agents to infiltrate the keep, or Josephine would convince Empress Celene and King Alistair to send troops, or Cullen—Maker, what would her fierce Fereldan lover do when he found out she was gone? Would he send the Inquisition’s army? Besiege the keep himself?

“Finally awake, Lady Trevelyan?”

Her head jerked up, eyes straining in the gloom. A man stood before her, just outside the pool of light that she couldn’t see any details of his face; She couldn’t see anything, really, beyond the red glow of his eyes and the cloud of red lyrium around his head— _Red Templar, then_. The smell the corruption rolled off of him, cloying and sweet. It took all her self-restraint not to gag.

“You’ll never get away with this,” she snarled, lunging forward, fist curling around the bars of her cell. “The Inquisition has an army—my advisors will bring the wrath of the Maker down upon your head!”

He laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “Let them come. Even if they manage to breech the walls, they’ll never make it to you in time,” he paused, stepping into the light. An image of gaunt eyes and hollow cheeks crowned by greasy black hair filled her vision. “The Elder One comes, my dear Herald. And he’s coming for  _you_.”

~*~

“WHAT?! How could you have let this happen!?” Cullen thundered at motley assortment of warriors and mages in his office, fury rolling off of his frame.

Iron Bull shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “Well, the Boss just sort of wandered off…she’s usually fine on her own.”

“And no one thought to go after her?” He snapped. 

No one in the room dared meet his gaze. 

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose; he could feel a migraine building at the base of his skull, but he didn’t have time to deal with it. Lady Elena Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste and Leader of the Inquisition—and his lover, though now was not that time to think on that—had been kidnapped by Red Templars, and was, in all probability, being held in the bowels of Suledin Keep until she could be handed over to Samson, and, ultimately, Corypheus. Maker only knew what they would do to her—what they were currently doing to her. 

“This is a blighted disaster,” he muttered.

“Look on the bright side,” Dorian quipped, clearly trying to mask his own anxieties over Elena’s disappearance. “Now you get to storm the keep and rescue your fair damsel. She’ll swoon into your arms, and you’ll declare your undying lo—”

Cullen cut the Tvinter off with a baleful glare.

“That. Is. NOT. A bright side,” he growled, jaw clenched. With a heavy sigh, Cullen reached for his helmet. “But you’re right. I will personally oversee the Inquisitor’s rescue. We leave in two hours. DISMISSED.”

~*~

A sound ripped out of her mouth, something between a whimper and a scream as a steel encased foot slammed into her stomach. Elena curled in on herself, trying to protect her vital organs. Another blow landed from the other side, slamming into the small of her back. They had been going at this for what felt like hours, though she really had no concept of time anymore. All Elena knew was pain and the warm coppery taste of blood that filled her mouth. A mailed fist slammed into her jaw, sending lightening bolts of pain searing down her throat and across her face.

Another kick, this time clipping her forearm and landing square against her chest. 

She wanted it to stop, but she knew if she could just hold on a little longer, Cullen would come for her. He wouldn’t let her die here.

A hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head up so she could look into Samson’s face. His lips curled up in a sneer.

“All you have to do is tell me your plans, and I can make the pain stop.”

She wanted to say yes, tell him everything—where Skyhold was, what they knew of the Wardens, what they knew of his plans. But the shame of being too weak, of failing the Inquisition—her advisors, companions, all those who relied on her—was too overwhelming.

“Eat shit,” she rasped.  _Cullen will come for me._

Samson slammed her head down against the floor, a resounding  _crack_  echoing off the stone walls as her vision went black.

Hours later, she lay on the floor of her cell. A tray of moldy bread sat across the room, but she refused to look at it. Elena wasn’t sure how long she had been down here—days, weeks, perhaps? Everything ached—the healers had been in to see to the internal bleeding, but they left the non-lethal injuries. What happened earlier that day was practically routine at this point. Samson had her beat multiple times a day, trying to extract information. Part of her thought he simply enjoyed watching her writhe on the floor in agony. She needed to get out of here—she couldn’t sand one more second of his leering, smug face, or the stench of death that clung to him.

Closing her eyes, Elena concentrated on steadying her breath and letting her mind fly away from this hellish pit.

The dank walls around her melted away, replaced by the golden light of her chambers in Skyhold.  _A fire burned high in the hearth, the warmth enveloping her from where she lay across her bed, Cullen’s soft hair under her fingertips. The scruff of his jaw brushing against the inside of her thighs. His warm lips working against her, strong hands anchoring her firmly down._

“Cullen,” she sobbed into the darkness.

He would come for her, she knew he would. But Maker, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could wait for him.


	2. Chapter Two

Cullen stared up at the formidable stone walls of Suledin Keep as snow swirled around his head. The fortress was perched at the top of a sharp rise, and approachable from only one direction. As much as he wished  to avoid pitched battle, they would have to make a frontal assault. He only hoped Elena was still in there; Maker, if she was hurt, he would rip those responsible limb from limb with his bare hands.

With a heavy sigh, he turned his back on the hulking building to survey his troops; he had requisitioned Bull’s Chargers and brought all of Elena’s companions. More soldiers waited at the foot of the mountain, reserves to be brought up if the elite forces needed support. 

He had separated everyone by class and ability the previous night, once they had arrived in Emprise du Lion. It had taken them a week to travel from Skyhold, and Cullen was worried that it had taken too much time. They had no way of knowing if Elena was still in the Keep. If they lost her—his heart stuttered in his chest. No, he couldn’t think like that. The sun would be up soon, and then they would attack. He would find her.

_Elena, love, I’m coming for you_.  _Hold on, just a few more hours._

“Alright,” he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Elena was counting on them; they must not fail her. “Mages, I want you working on defense and healing. Prioritize healing for rogues and defense for warriors. Archers, take out their long-range fighters first, then deal as much damage as you can to their commanders. Melee rogues, I want you to work in pairs to flank their foot soldiers and archers if you can get close enough. Warriors, I want you to go for those red monstrosities. You can take the damage, but don’t be reckless. Everyone stick together, I don’t want people going off on their own. Remember, Lady Trevelyan’s safety is our priority.”

Cullen paused, looking over the men and women standing before him. Her brothers and sisters in arms—how many times had every one of them stepped onto the battlefield at her side? He caught Dorian’s eyes and tried not to flinch at the raw fear and desperation he saw there—that he knew was reflected in his own eyes. The cold winter’s sun lit up their solemn faces—hope and fear reflecting in their gazes.

_Maker, if I have ever in my life pleased you, I beg of you to turn your gaze upon me. Andraste, guide my steps and my sword._

He took a deep breath. “Our Herald is in there. She’s counting on us to get to her before Corypheus does. Ready your weapons, and do not forget that she would do the same for each and every one of you.” 

He turned and unsheathed his sword before pulling down the visor of his helmet. Holding the blade aloft, the newly risen sun glinting off the blade, he charged.

“ELENA!”

~*~

A key scraped through the rusty lock; her only warning before Samson dragged her out of her cell, the steel of his gauntlet cutting into the flesh of her forearm. It took her a moment to orient herself—she had been sleeping, maybe, drifting in and out of consciousness, more like. Elena wasn’t sure how many days had passed—her time here had been a blur of savage beatings and long stretches of neglect, with only the ebb and flow of pain to mark the passage of time.

“Time to go, Lady Trevelyan. Your knight is beating down the gate, but he won’t find you here,” Samson sneered. 

“Cullen’s here!?” she demanded, finally struggling against his iron grip, digging her heels into the icy floor. 

Samson stopped short. Spinning around, he backhanded her with a gauntleted fist, so hard that stars erupted across her vision. A warm coppery taste filled her mouth, and Elena tongued the gash she had bit on the inside of her cheek. 

“That’s a strangely familiar way to address your Commander, Inquisitor,” he narrowed his eyes, searching her face. “Ah, I see. Tell me, do you imagine yourself to be in a fairytale? With brave, dashing heroes and knights who always save the princess and live happily ever after? Let me tell you a secret, Lady Trevelyan. I knew Cullen years ago, and that broken shell of man is filled with nothing but hate and bitterness towards the world.”

Samson leaned in close, his hand on her forearm pulling her in until she could smell the rot of his teeth. “You are a _mistake_. An aberration. You don’t get a happy ending.”

Though his words twisted her stomach and made her head ring, she refused to think on them. Rearing back, Elena slammed her forehead against the bridge of his nose and wretched her arm out of grasp. Scrambling backwards, she heard Samson curse in agony as she dashed out of the room and down the corridor, adrenaline pumping through her veins, dulling her pain.

She ran. The dungeon was a maze of corridors leading to nowhere, but she kept going, Samson fast on her heels. Her harsh breath and the thudding of her heart echoed in her ears, but she could hear the sounds of fighting nearby.  _Your knight is breaking down the gate._ Inquisition troops must be nearby, if she could just get to them.

Darting up the first staircase she found, Elena burst into an upper courtyard. A moment’s look around told her it was empty, but the clash of steel and smell of burnt flesh told her she was getting closer. Slamming the door closed, she jammed an iron candle holder through the handles moments before the wood shuddered under impact from the other side. Elena scrambled back, eyes wide, as she heard Samson cursing from behind the door.

She needed a weapon. If he broke free, or found another way out…A brief scan told her that the Courtyard was empty of anything helpful. Turning, she staggered towards the nearby stairs, trying to make her way closer to the sounds of battle.

Cullen—he must be here somewhere, if she could just find him. She took a deep breath; now that she was safely away from Samson for the moment, the adrenaline began to fade from her veins. A heavy weariness settled in her limbs as all the aches of her beatings surfaced again. The Red Templars had sent healers in afterwards to take care of her most serious injuries, but judging by the sharp pains that stabbed through her side with each breath, she knew she had at least one broken rib. She didn’t know how much further she could keep walking, but Elena knew she had to try. She turned the corner, and the world spun precariously.

~*~

The fight to the main courtyard had been bloody and hard won, but luckily there had been no casualties on their side, thanks in large part to the mages. Cullen could feel the sweat stinging in his eyes, despite the cold temperature, and he was panting from the exertion of battle. Suledin Keep had fallen and Samson fled, but there was still no sign of Elena.

“Split up into groups of four—two warriors, a mage, and a rogue each. Search every corner until you find her,” Cullen ordered, motioning Varric, Cassandra, and Dorian to follow him.

Heart pounding in his chest, Cullen tried not to let the fears that whispered at the back of his mind take hold. Where was she, damn it? Maker if anything had happened to her—he _couldn’t_.

They searched the first floor—every storeroom and alcove, no space was too small. Others took the lower levels, but so far there had been no word. After nearly an hour of searching, Cullen and his group burst into an empty upper courtyard, seemingly untouched by battle. A wooden door hung open on its hinges and snow whistled down into the bowels of the keep. He hesitated, unsure of which direction to take—surely others has looked through the dungeons, but he would hate to overlook anything. The rest of the group waited for him to decide, postures tense. After a moment, he felt the heavy weight of hand on his shoulder.

“Look,” Cassandra whispered, indicating a smear of blood against the outer wall, along a staircase leading up a look out tower. 

Cullen dashed up the stairs two at a time, not looking to see if the others followed. Rounding the corner, Cullen froze, heart squeezing in his chest. Elena lay slumped against the wall, eyes closed and not moving. For one hideous moment he thought she was dead. But then, slowly her eyes opened and she turned her head toward him.

“Cullen,” her voice was faint, but the ghost of a smile wavered on her lips. 

She looked awful. She had been stripped down to the leather and linen underlayers of her armor, and they were caked in blood and dirt. A thin layer of grime and sweat covered her skin, and blood matted her hair. One eye was swollen shut and a fresh bruise blooming just under it. 

His sword and shield felt to the ground with a clang as he sprinted towards her, reaching her side in a moment. He knelt,knees almost too weak to stand. Cradling her face between his trembling hands, Cullen brushed his lips over her forehead. 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmured, gathering her into his arms. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come for you sooner”

“I…knew you’d come,” she whispered, tucking her head under his chin— _Maker her skin was like ice_. “I kept telling myself…Cullen won’t…won’t let me die…here.”

“Hush, love,” he murmured into her hair, guilt stabbing through him at her blind trust in him. “Save your strength.”

Standing, Cullen slowly descended the stairs to where the rest of his party waited. He tried to shield her as much as possible from the elements, tried to gather her into him and reassure himself that he actually held her in his arms.

“Cassandra, you’re in charge,” he called over his shoulder. “Keep patrols running. I want reports every six hours.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the third and final part of the “heroic Cullen” prompt fill. I hope the anon who originally requested it enjoyed the story (And everyone else, of course)!

They stayed in camp, though the Chargers and many of the reserve troops were sent back to Skyhold or other various assignments throughout Thedas. All of Elena’s companions stayed in Emprise du Lion, nervously poking their heads into Cullen’s tent, asking after her. Exhausted as she was from nearly two weeks of ill treatment, Elena slept for two days, and the healers could do nothing until she awoke for fear of overwhelming her body with magic. Cullen, Maker bless him, never left her side, and instead had his desk moved closer to her bed. Sometimes he worked, though often as not he simply sat next to her, holding her hand between his own.

He prayed. Oh, did he ever pray. Cullen was a religious man, of course; he offered prayers to the Maker and his Bride nearly every day, but now, now he pleaded, he bargained, he begged. He recited the Chant until his voice broke and his vision blurred. He brought her fingers to his lips, brushing kisses over them as she spoke the Maker’s love for Andraste and her devotion to Him.

His mind reeled with thoughts and intrusive fears about what could have happened to her while she was captive. Cullen had refused to let the healers examine her in full until she was awake and could consent to such an invasion, until she could tell them if it was necessary. He prayed it wasn’t.

Day blurred into night again and Dorian sat with her after Cassandra forced Cullen to spend a few hours on sleep.

In the morning, Elena began to stir.

~*~

The first thing she felt was pain. Sharp stabs in her chest each time she breathed, the ache of her bones with each passing second. The minor cuts and bruises covering her body, knitting a quilt of discomfort. The next thing she noticed was gnawing vicious hunger clawing its way through her stomach. Opening her eyes, Elena tried to sit, but found she hardly had the strength to lift her head. Before she could ascertain where she was, a strong arm wrapped around her, lifting her while pillows were positioned under her back. She turned her head, recognizing the warm, masculine scent of her lover before she saw him.

“Cullen,” she breathed, nuzzling her face into his chest as he helped her to sit, the  _safety_  of him settling around her.

Easing her back, he pressed something to her lips, “shhh, here drink this.”

The heat from the broth spread through her limbs and quieted the hunger inside of her as she settled onto the pillows. He stroked her hair back from her forehead, hand trembling against her skin.

“Where are we?” she managed to ask, head falling back against the pillows when he pulled the cup away.

Cullen shifted from his chair to perch on the edge of her bed, her hand clasped between his own.

“Emprise du Lion, still. Suledin has been cleared, but you were—are—too weak to travel. The healers did what they could, but they needed you awake to see to everything,” he murmured, voice low and choked emotion.

Cullen lifted her hand, brushing it over his jaw, before pressing a kiss to knuckles. “Maker, Elena. I thought I’d lost you.”

The crack in his voice hurt worse than any of her injuries. She wanted to gather him to her, hold him close and reassure him that she would never leave his side. But she was too weak; instead she squeezed his hand with what little strength she had.

“I’m right here,” she whispered.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to her forehead once more. “I need to send the healers in, love. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

She nodded, watching as he stood and exited the tent. A moment later a group of healers entered, bearing potions and ingredients, the air around them scented with the crackle of magic and elfroot. They asked her a dizzying number of questions all the while poking and prodding. She hissed as one apprentice nudged her ribs.

“Broken ribs—” one of them muttered. “Punctured lung unlikely.”

The head healed firmly pressed their hand over her side, enough to send pain blossoming through her chest. Slowly though, the pain was replaced with warmth as magic knit her bones back together. They preformed this ritual again and again. First prodding for injuries, then warm healing magic flooded her system. It was exhausting having so many hands touch her and such energy flow through her. Elena’s eyes grew heavy.

“I need you to stay awake, Your Worship,” the head healer said, not unkindly. “Is there anywhere else that hurts? Any injury that we’ve missed?”

Fighting to keep her eyes open, Elena shook her head. The healer nodded and motioned her team out of the room. Once they were completely alone, the other woman leaned down, so that she could whisper. 

“My lady, I understand if you were hesitant to say so in front of others—especially men—but I need to know if any of your captors forced themselves upon you.”

Elena sighed softly, when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “I experienced many horrors in those dungeons, but luckily rape was not one of them.”

The healer smiled gently and patted Elena’s hand. “I’m sorry, my lady, I had to ask. Sleep now, dear. Healing can be exhausting.”

Elena was dead to the world before the healer left the tent. 

~*~

“I need to ask you some questions…about what happened,” Cullen said, apology apparent in his voice.

It was the next morning after the healers had been in to see her. She had woken feeling a little stronger; it certainly helped lift her spirits to find Cullen sitting next to the bed, a report in one hand, her hand clasped in his other. He had helped her eat breakfast—real, food, not just broth, and now he was perched next to her on the bed, their hands still laced together. 

She nodded, steeling herself mentally to think once again about her experience in Suledin Keep. 

“Did you learning anything about Corypheus’ plans?”

She closed her eyes trying to recall everything that had happened—if there had been any hints or whispers that might supply them with crucial information. Any sign that might point to her ordeal was worth something. There had been whispers at the edge of her hearing, but nothing substantial. She shook her head, feeling sick.

““I’m sorry,” his said, expression stricken at the pain clear on her face. “Please, just a few more questions. Did you recognize anyone you saw?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “Samson was there. He…oversaw my imprisonment.”

The Red Templar’s words resounded in her head:  _you are a mistake. An aberration_.  _You don’t get a happy ending_. _That broken shell of man is filled with nothing but hate and bitterness towards the world._ Elena glanced up at Cullen, trying to match Samson’s mocking description to the tender man sitting next to her. He was learning towards her, curving his body around her in a comforting, protecting gesture. His hand continued to stroke hers. No, Samson was wrong about Cullen, and he was surely wrong about her too.

“Please try to think if there was anything else that might be helpful. Did Samson say anything about troop movements or…”

She thought about Samson—the rotting stench of his breath, the hellish red glare of his eyes. The way he leered at her, and watched from the shadows as those under his command beat her senseless.  _He bent over her as lay, whimpering on the ground, curling around herself. He ran a boney finger down the side of her face. Blood dripped from his fingertip as he pulled it away and brought it to his mouth._

_“Divine,” he groaned, sucking his finger into his mouth._

She was shaking, hands gripping the blankets so tight her knuckles had gone white. Cullen wrapped his arm around her, thumb ghosting over her cheeks. She realized he was wiping away her tears.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Hush, love, it’s okay. I’m here, you’re safe.”

Cullen wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace. Elena pressed her face to his chest, tears flowing freely for the first time in weeks. Now that she was safe, she could finally allow herself to feel—all the pain and fear and doubt came flooding through her, bubbling up as the damn of her emotions broke. She sobbed, gasping for air as he held her in the safe circle of his arms. 

“Oh, Cullen,” she said, her voice muffled into his chest. “I can’t…there was nothing important…all that…it was for nothing. Samson’s gone…I just…I feel _filthy_.”

They stayed like that for a long moment. She curled her fingers into the linen of his shirt, face pressed to the warm skin of his chest that peaked through his collar. Cullen stroked her back, hands moving in calming circles. Slowly, her tears stayed and her breath returned to normal. She felt not a little foolish at her outburst—surely others would have handled such a thing with more grace and dignity. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, pulling away from him. 

His grip tightened around her, refusing to let her go. The expression on his face was soft and sad as he regarded her. 

“You never need to apologize about this—not to me or  _anyone_.” He stroked her cheek, wiping away the last remnants of her tears. “But as for the last part, I think I can do something about that”

Elena watched as Cullen stood and stepped outside the tent. A few moments later, he returned carrying a brazer full of red coals and linen towels. He set the brazer down on next to the corner of his desk and placed the bronze washbowl of his nightstand over the coals. Cullen lifted her out of bed and set her gently on the edge of the desk. She shivered in the cool air; he or the healers had removed most of her clothes when she had first been brought to camp and now she was dressed in a loose tunic which she strongly suspected belonged to her Commander.

Picking up one of the linen cloths, Cullen knelt. Slowly, he began to bathe her. Starting with her feet and working his way up her legs one at a time, he washed the dirt, sweat, and blood from her body. His touch was gentle, mindful of the various cuts and bruises blooming across her skin. The water was mercifully warm as it trickled down her legs, tickling her pale skin. 

Once he reached the hem of her tunic, he shifted his focus to her hands and forearms, leaving her clothed for the moment. He kissed her fingertips as he cleaned them one at a time. His lips trailing after his fingers as he washed her arms and shoulders. Finishing both, he stood and wrung out the washcloth. Wetting it again, Cullen cradled the back of her skull with one hand and began removing the grim from her face and neck. She watched him as he worked, studied his face and wondered what he was thinking. His lips were set in a hard line, the scar that bisected them gone white. Eyes bright with focus, his touch was tender as he patted the swollen and bruised skin around her eye.

She loved him with all he heart, Elena knew that. But now, watching and feeling him tend to her, so carefully and thoughtfully, made her heart swell with love and pride. She caught his hand as he pulled away to wring out the cloth, and pressed his palm to her cheek.

“I love you,” Elena murmured, nuzzling his wrist. 

“And I you, sweetheart.”

When all of her visible skin was clean, Cullen stepped forward and gently lifted the tunic over her head. For the first time since their first time, she felt uncomfortable being so exposed to him. She felt ashamed of the damage done to her body. Gently, Cullen pulled her arms away from where she’d wrapped them around her chest in a shield. 

There was less dirt under her clothes, but he set to work regardless, cloth running over her stomach and chest, hips and thighs. Where this any other time and place, his ministrations might have stoked a fire deep in her belly, but today she was too weary for anything beyond keeping herself upright and awake.

Cullen shifted behind her, working along her shoulders. He lifted her hair, dragging it away from her neck and back, before she felt the warm water and soft cloth run down her spine. Elena sighed, and bowed her head forward. She loved having her back touched, and this, after weeks of neglect and abuse, this simple gesture was sublime.

“Lay down on the desk, sweetheart,” Cullen order gently after he had finished her back.

She did as he said, wondering briefly what he had in store.  

He lifted her head a little, pulling her hair out from under her so that it hung in the air. Taking a carafe from his nightstand, Cullen wetted her hair, careful to keep the water from her eyes. He set to work washing her hair. His fingers were firm as they massaged her scalp, much the same way she would do when he had a headache. She sighed and closed her eyes; the smell of soap drifted through the air around her. He worked his way down, from root to end before rinsing everything, water sluicing to the ground.

Hooking his arms around her shoulders and under her knees, he carried her back to the bed, and draped his fur lined surcoat over her shoulders for warmth. Before she could ask for a comb to work on her hair, he sat behind her, comb in hand, and began to gentle tease out the snarls.

She leaned forward, giving him enough room to hold her long locks taut. As he worked, she glanced about the tent, for the first since she woke finding herself interested in her surroundings beyond him. It was certainly her Commander’s tent—large but sparse in furnishings. Besides the bed, there was an armor and weapons stand, his desk, chair, and washstand. A chest stood in the corner. Warm winter light filtered through the tan fabric, infusing the air with heat. 

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” she murmured, finally braking the silence as she resisted the urge to sink back into him.

Her words brought a soft chuckle.

“Well, I do have two sisters, and s slew of female cousins. My mother and aunts used to conscript my brother and me to help with hair brushing on bathing day,” he said, voice low as if it were a great secret only for her ears.

She wanted to laugh at the picture of Cullen as a child, struggling to brush another golden curled child’s hair. She would have laughed, but she thought he might not appreciate it. Instead she sat quietly, enjoying the feeling of the brush running through her hair. The image in her mind slowly morphed to one of Cullen as he was now, brushing a small child’s hair. She smiled to herself.  _He would be a wonderful father._

“I do have one other question,” he said, weaving her hair into a simple braid.

Her heart sank; more questions? Surely there was nothing more she could tell him.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he shifted them, so that they were face to face, her still perched between his legs. “Elena, I thought I lost you—I was terrified that something unspeakable had happened to you, and not for the first time. At Adamant—” he sighed, breaking off suddenly. “Sorry, this isn’t exactly how I had planned this.”

“Planned what?” She asked, stomach clenching in fear—was he going to leave her? Had he finally decided the risk of their jobs was too much strain for their relationship to bear?

He took her hands in his and brought them to his lips. Brushed kisses over her knuckles, the stubble of his beard scratching lightly against her skin.

“I love you. I know that your position as Inquisitor means you’ll always be in some modicum of danger but I know now that no matter the risks, I will never regret being with you.” He turned her hands over and pressed a kiss to her palms, one after the other. “What I’m trying very poorly to say is: Elena Trevelyan, will you be my wife?”

_Will you be my wife_? His words danced in her head, her vision blurring suddenly as tears sprang to her eyes.

“You want to marry me?” she squeaked, barely daring to believe it.

Maker’s breath, he was proposing.

“Of course I do—Elena,  _say_ something,” he urged.

“Oh Cullen, yes! A thousand times, yes,” she exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms as joy flooded through her veins.

Tears were falling freely down her face now, but they were entirely different from the ones she shed earlier. She suddenly felt light,  _free_. Cullen wrapped his arms around her, clutching her to his chest.

“I love you,” he murmured, settling back against the mattress and holding her close. 

“I love you too,” she whispered lips seeking his for a kiss.


End file.
